


Play Pretend

by orphan_account



Series: Sansan One-Shots [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Dark!Sansa, F/M, Follows Book Canon until Battle of the Blackwater, Jealousy, Smut, alayne stone - Freeform, the hound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23356150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Hound gets another chance to save Sansa Stark, only to find that she no longer exists.Modern AU in which Sandor stays the Hound, and instead Sansa is the one to radically change.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Sansan One-Shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697629
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	Play Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is set in modern times (because I find that easier to write!) but still followed book canon, in a modern way. Everything is the same up until Battle of the Blackwater, when Sandor leaves- instead of his ‘redemption’ arc, he instead keeps the Hound persona and acts accordingly. But, when he hears of a certain Alayne Stone, he tries to redeem himself. He really does.
> 
> This fic is loosely based on ‘make daddy proud’ by blackbear, because I’ve become a whore for trashy pop music during the quarantine. Sue me.
> 
> Also, if you’re waiting on my other SanSan fics, I promise I haven’t forgotten them! I’m just super busy with college/internships/prepping for grad school, but it’s looking like I’ll have more time soon!
> 
> Please feel free to comment!

She’s still the fucking hardest thing to look at.

Her hair’s dark now. Somewhere on the line between black and brown. Decidedly not the vivid red it was before, but still shiny and flawless and  _ her.  _ Because, of course. It’s Sansa fucking Stark.

She’s older now, which tends to happen after someone disappears for years, he supposes. Got to be in her mid twenties now, he counts in his head. He’d never been good at math, but some numbers stick around.

4 years, two months. Time since he’d last seen her.

He’d been fucking around since then, drinking himself stupid and doing a tour of all the whorehouses in the city. Like a vacation, but with less joy and more self hatred.

She was supposed to come with him. Not to the drunken stupors or women, but across the sea somewhere. His tour would’ve been much, much different, and his main concern would’ve been keeping her safe and hidden, rather than figuring out which redhead he’d pay for next.

In his head he’d considered South Korea, maybe Japan- they would’ve stuck out like sore thumbs, with his ugly mug, sheer size, and her flash of auburn hair. But that was a disguise in itself. Last he’d heard, the Lannisters had little interests in expanding their  _ enterprises  _ over there.

Now, looking at her, he supposed it wouldn’t of been hard to get rid of one of those identifiers. He misses the red, and it makes him angrier. At her, at him, at all of it.

Sansa Stark had supposedly killed her ex betrothed, Joffrey Lannister. The little bird had up and flew away, currently being stalked across the country for her crimes. 

Dumb cunts. Didn’t think one minute to look outside the country, did they? They probably assumed her too stupid, too feeble to find a way across the sea. The Lannisters didn’t rule everything, of course- but they damn well saw it all. She must’ve had some extraordinary luck, one of her gods on her side. Not that Sandor believed in that shit. 

But Sansa Stark was less than fifty feet away, so he figured he may as well start.

He watched her for a while. 

Sandor was a dog, through and through- he’d caught her scent at a dingy pub outside of Dublin, heard the whisper of gossip. He had been half drunk already, on the tail of a rather rough bender that had him throwing up his insides for days.

But he’d heard it clearly.

Petyr Baelish. Bastard daughter. 

Those two ideas didn’t sit right with him. He shouldn’t of gave a second shit- that was his past life, when he’d been just a dog. Don’t misunderstand- he was still a dog, but it was different, in his head. He was his own dog now- free to drink himself to death on his own terms. No more rules, no more owners.

But he knew Baelish. Had been to a few of his establishments back in New York, more than a few times. Knew all of his little secrets, knew that he likely only knew the secrets Baelish  _ allowed  _ to be told. And if there was one thing he knew: Petyr Baelish didn’t have bastards.

The cunt probably had warehouses full of moon tea, and if the man fucked, he probably poured the tea down the bitches’ throats himself. He couldn’t quite see the man being  _ fatherly. _

__ Which made the idea of it all even worse, a bitter taste left in his mouth.

And he’d made his way to Dublin, following the trail of rumors along the way. 

Dublin, he thought. So close to London, closer than she’d been in New York, for sure- but still out of reach. He wondered if she’d ever get back to her homeland, ever see another Stark again. With three dead, the wolf bitch supposedly running across America, the two youngest boys nowhere to be found- he doubted it. 

He would’ve taken her back to London eventually. 

Sandor wasn’t sure what he was supposed to tell her now. Coming out of a rough drinking spell, he looked  _ rough-  _ not that he looked comforting before, but at least he’d been something for her. 

But maybe he could undo that now. Maybe he could take her from Littlefinger and still bring her away- maybe not to London right away, since it had been fucked over by the Boltons, last he’d heard. But eventually. She’d have her family’s prestige waiting for her, their loyal followers waiting for her to take over her father’s helm. He didn’t know shit about it all, but he knew that she’d be able to do it.

He didn’t give a second fuck about Stark Enterprises, but he gave a fuck about Sansa Stark.

She wasn’t Sansa Stark, though. She was Alayne Stone, supposed bastard of Petyr Baelish, and she was not acting anything like Sansa Stark. He’d known things would be different, known four years, two months- and all the shit that happened even before that- could change a person. He’d reminded himself before he stepped into the disgustingly ritzy place, before he even saw her. 

Surroundings tell a lot about a person- Sansa Stark would’ve been mortified in the room, would’ve been twisting her hands in her silk sundress, fiddling with a strand of her perfectly-placed hair, remembering all the lessons her mother had instilled in her. 

But Alayne Stone, however- she had her hand creeping up her fake father’s thigh, whispering something into his ear as he listened, a lazy, gluttonous smirk on his weasley features. Sandor hadn’t even thought it was her at first- just thought another girl was on his lap, just cataloging the movements of the man across the room. 

But then she’d turn her head, moving a curtain of dark, dark hair away from her face, and he was first taken aback by the smooth, pearly skin, almost unnatural against her dark hair. Then it was her high cheekbones, her red, plump lips, and he couldn’t even look at her eyes when she glanced around the room.

He already knew who it was, and if he saw that blue right now, he may just crack. This wasn’t her, wasn’t supposed to ever be her- but there was no denying it. 

It was dim enough in the club that he could sulk to a corner, hidden by the darkness. It was absolutely packed, and he hated Baelish even more for it. The dumb bastard, wanting to show off his pretty prize- he didn’t give a fuck about her safety.

But he also had to give him  _ some  _ credit. No one expected the regal Sansa Stark to act like a whore in a public club, pawing over her predatory family friend.

Just the way she moved hurt him- she was still catlike, but it had gone from an innocent gracefulness to a sultry movement, stopping to look into Baelish’s eyes, biting down on a dark red lip. That movement distracted him, sending a rush of blood to his cock, a guilty pain squeezing his heart. He was horrified- by her, by him, by all of it.

When they kissed, he looked away, finally. He felt dirty, disgusting. Like he needed a long, cold shower, needed to scrub it all from his skin. He hadn’t had that feeling in the past four years, never felt ashamed for his drinking. For leaving her behind, not insisting she come? Yeah, he felt like shit for that- but that was what the drinking was for, he supposed.

Baelish separated from her for a moment, running one of his hands up the side of her dress- dark blue, short, and skintight, yet another thing Sansa Stark would Not Be Doing. His thumb went up, skimming her side, right under the swell of her breasts. 

Sandor felt like he was watching an execution, something dark and twisted, something he shouldn’t be seeing but couldn’t look away from. A shutter racked her body at his touch, and Sandor felt like he’d be sick.

Baelish smiled at her, a nasty grin that made Sandor’s blood boil. He was here to save her, to force her to come this time- but he couldn’t help the disgusting jealousy that boiled inside him.

She was never his, but she should never of been Petyr’s, either.

He had pushed a cup into her hands, and Sansa held both her hands around it in a girlish way, her big, doe eyes looking at Baelish as she sipped the drink. Sandor watched it go down her long, pale throat, knowing Baelish was, too. Sandor wanted to hide her.

She finished off the drink, her tongue brushing out to lick a droplet on the rim. 

Baelish shook his head, laughing softly.

He patted her bottom, and Sansa moved away to let him off the leather couch- and Baelish moved away, making a line for the bar.Sansa whispered something in his ear, and he nodded, grabbing her arm. Giving it a tight squeeze.

Sandor watched her, her body language tight as she watched Baelish saunter to the bar, the crowd of people seemingly parting for him. She paused for a moment as he began to talk to the bartender, taking in a seemingly deep breath.

Sansa turned and looked right at Sandor. His breath caught in his throat, gripping his glass so hard he thought it may break. Her eyes were so goddamn blue- that signature Tully blue- and so achingly  _ familiar  _ that he felt like he may die right there. For all the sins he’d done, he wondered if the worst was not making her come with him that night.

Sansa just tilted her chin up, her dark hair falling back from her face, her lips slightly parted- almost a challenge in itself, and Sandor felt his chest hurt. He closed his eyes for a moment, regaining his senses, blessing whatever fucking god was listening that he’d gotten a second chance, and hoping it wasn’t in vain.

And then, he followed her.

\---------

Sansa Stark also didn’t smoke.

Joffrey had a variety of pills he’d pop regularly, practically running a pharmacy out of his master bath. Sansa had always shied away from it all, horrified at the idea. Sandor felt a rush of guilt, remembering her zombified state after Joffrey had forced a few down her throat. He didn’t think he’d ever been that mad before, watching her lay in bed for a few days, not connected to the world around her. Though, looking back, maybe it was a small mercy for her. 

Regardless. Sansa Stark had never given into vices like the rest of them.

But he had found her in the alleyway outside, a freshly-lit cigarette on her lips, leaning on the brick behind her. He had to stop, for a second. Just to take her in, to look at the smooth lines and soft curves of her body, sloping out from the wall. To both admire and hate the skimpy dress she wore, praising it for showcasing just how much she had changed over the years.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help it.” Sansa said softly, gesturing with the cigarette she held between her slim, dainty fingers. She shook her head, her dark curls ruffling around her. “I drank a bit too much.”

Another thing Sansa Stark never did.

“It’s okay.” Was all Sandor could say, barely more than a croak out of him. Sansa looked at him again, in that new way- he could see her dark lashes now, the perk of her lips, the slight furrow in her brow. Watching, calculating, memorizing. 

“I guess you’re here for me? Or is that too presumptive?” Sansa asked, the corner of her lip curling up into a wry smile. Sandor suddenly felt stupid, like a young boy with his first love. 

He’d never been this way when she was younger- she was just a stupid, romantic girl, and although he couldn’t deny his attraction or devotion, she was never hard to read, never made him question his place or convictions.

But something in their dynamic had changed- for once, she had all of the words, all of the plans and all of the steps in her head; he had thought he’d be making them, be keeping her safe, but she seemed to be worlds ahead of him.

“I heard Baelish had a bastard. Knew that was shit.” Sandor muttered, keeping his face as impassive as he could; don the veil of the hound once again, watch her recoil at his scars and grimace at his rudeness.

But this Sansa did none of that.

She laughed, a clear, slightly forced sound. “Well, I am surely not his bastard. But I suppose that much is obvious?”

He remembered her on his lap, their hips lazily grinding against one another, their lips devouring the other.

Yes. That much was obvious.

“What do you need, Sandor?” Sansa asked, pushing her body away from the wall. Her tone had taken on another layer, one he’d never heard from her lips before. It made him pause, trying to identify its source, its meaning. She put out her cigarette on the wall, flinging it to the ground below, making eye contact with him all the while.

_ Need.  _ Not want. The wording was odd, her voice was odd, and his pants felt too tight, his mind moving too fast.

He  _ needed  _ a lot of things. Needed to keep Sansa Stark safe, needed to find her bitch sister, needed to guard her and be by her while she took her father’s helm.

He needed her.

“I’ve missed you, you know?” Sansa whispered, the words tumbling out of her lips. A pink tongue licked over them, and he realized how close she’d gotten, barely a breath away from him. 

She kissed him before he could respond, soft, soft lips making contact with his own. It was nothing like he’d always pictured it’d be, late at night when his resolve was down and his cock hard. It wasn’t sweet and innocent, wasn’t Sansa Stark- it was delirious, passionate, and experienced.

His heart hurt.

He thought to push her away, feeling so wrong and predatory, no better than her  _ father  _ inside; but she felt his stirring. She only kissed him harder, pressing her lithe body against his, her size dwarfed by his own.

He could hurt her, could break her- his huge hands almost spanned the length around her waist, he noted, as he let himself go. But she had no fear left in her. The tables had turned somewhere between them, had turned with the changes in her. She was all in control now, and for the first time in his life, Sandor Clegane felt helpless.

He wanted control, felt the ugly Hound in himself rear its head. He pushed her against the wall, ignoring the little feminine  _ oh  _ she made, followed by her clear, breathless laugh.

Whatever he did- it was all in her plans, all in her doings. 

“Sansa,” Sandor breathed, his forehead against hers, his hands pushing her back, away from him. Her eyes were so dark they were barely blue anymore, her cheeks flushed with arousal. He couldn’t look at her like this.

“Please,” She said simply, looking like a goddess incarnate before him, begging for him to continue. He felt something in him break a little at that- in an alleyway, in some place in Dublin, four years after they’d last talked. And still, he was at her every whim, following her every word, even though they’d only seen each other five minutes ago.

Sandor could never say no to her.

He kissed her again, this time pining her against the brick behind her; her reaction was immediate, a high moan stuck in her throat, vibrating on his tongue. She bit on his lip, and he wondered if his Sansa Stark would’ve ever done that. She did it again, harder, this time grinding against his hardness, and he knew she wouldn’t have.

He fisted a hand in his dark curls, knowing they weren’t red, deciding not to look for a reminder; her reaction was quick, her hips stuttering against his own as he gave a rough tug. He bared her neck, biting down the white pillar of it. In the dim light, he could already see little bruises forming, and a disgusting part of him hoped her fake father saw it, hoped he saw how rough he was with her.

Sandor felt her hand as it was too late, already slipping past his waistband and gripping his cock; he stuttered out her name against her neck.

“My name is Alayne,” Sansa said to him, a dark look in her eyes as she stared him down, her hand still gripping around him. Leading him by his cock, her words carrying an underlying strictness.

Sandor bristled, a grimace on his lips- she wasn’t Alayne, wasn’t anything her cunt of a  _ father  _ told her. She was Sansa Stark, and he would take her away-

She gripped harder, slowly moving her hand up. He felt all the breath leave him, his eyes closing with a groan stuck on his lips. Fuck.

He decided not to respond, instead kissing her harder, trying to regain whatever sense of control he’d once felt. His hand stumbled to the bottom of her dress, barely hitting mid-thigh. She shuddered as his hand dipped underneath. Just like she’d shuddered for Baelish.

Sandor bit her lip, hard.

She let out a pleading moan as his hands came in contact with her core- gods, she was wet, practically burning his hand as she soaked through her small scrap of underwear. He wondered if it was lace, what color it was, how it made her ass look- but they didn’t have time for that. She didn’t have time for that.

So he pushed them out of the way, pushing a finger into her wet heat. Sansa broke their kiss, throwing her head back to let out a pitiful sob of a moan. He could barely make it out, but heard it all the same.  _ Sandor. _

__ That set him going at a furious pace, matching the one she started on his cock. One finger became two, rubbing hard against that hardened spot on the inside, reveling in the mewls she led out, not able to stay still against him. And gods- her hand felt like heaven against him, so small and dainty it could barely wrap around him.

“Sandor, Sandor, Sandor-” She repeated, like a prayer against his lips, caught between moans as he added a thumb to her nub. He rubbed  _ hard _ , feeling all of the emotions he had for her come out into his actions- anger, hatred, envy, lust, love-

Sansa fell apart in his arms, screaming into his chest, marking a spot with her teeth.

Her hand tightened on him as she lost control, and he couldn’t help but follow, her name on his tongue.

Her  _ real  _ name. Sansa.

They stayed like that for a few moments, her breathing coming out hard, slowly morphing into a relaxed state, her eyes squeezed shut against him. She gripped him hard, her arms wrapped around his neck to keep her up.

“Come with me.” Sandor rasped, watching the rise and fall of her chest.

Her arms relaxed, stil not opening her eyes. She continued as if she didn’t hear him, and so he repeated again-

“No, Sandor.” Sansa said, pining him with deep, Tully-blue eyes and an expression he couldn’t read. He couldn’t read anything about her anymore, truly.

But he hadn’t expected that answer, especially not after what had happened. 

“You’re coming with me.” Sandor insisted, sure he’d heard her incorrectly. But Sansa shook her head softly, pushing her dress back down her thighs. She didn’t look sad, didn’t look guily, didn’t look anything. 

She looked like Peytr, in that moment, like she was sharing one of his faces. Unreadable.

“I have things to do here.” Sansa said simply. 

“Like what? Fuck your  _ father _ ?” Sandor shot back, not bothering to keep the venom from his voice. He was in her face now, just like he’d been in New York- back to a disgusting dog in one turn. 

“I’ll do whatever I must for my family.” She countered, his words not even bothering her enough to flinch; she just stared him down, seemingly unphased. He felt a little more broken in that moment, a little more lost than he’d previously thought.

“What would your real father think, little bird?” Sandor sneered,”Think he would enjoy you riding your family friend? Fucking the man always following your mother around?”

“Don’t talk about him like you  _ knew him.” _ Sansa spat out, her face morphing instantly into something he’d never seen before- hatred. In that moment, she truly hated him, the snarl on her lips and the fire in her eyes. 

Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt him. If anything, it made him hotter, made him happy to see something come from her that wasn’t just a carefully learned move from Baelish.

“You shouldn’t have came, Sandor.” Sansa said, her face more controlled now, the fire still raging in her eyes. It struck him to the core, an ache going through his chest, but he wouldn’t show her that.

He was the Hound, after all.

“Your father would be proud,” Sandor sneered back at her, pushing off the wall to get away from her. He had to- gods, his hands were shaking so badly, needing to punch  _ something  _ and get away from her, get far, far away from the little bird.

He saw a flash in her eyes, her lips still a straight, thin line. But she stayed silent, eyeing him as he moved away.

If he were a different man, more gentle, more compassionate, more loving- he would’ve begged her, would’ve confessed everything to her.

But he wasn’t that man. And she wasn’t that woman.

He looks back for a moment, because no matter who he is, he can’t fucking stop himself from looking at Sansa Stark, one more time. And she’s not looking him, but instead at the space in the alley where he once was. She isn’t crying, isn’t weeping- she just looks lost. He thinks for a moment that she looks scared, and if he were someone else, that may have broke him.

But he isn’t that man.

In an instant she changes, running a hand down her dress and over her hair to restore her pristine look; and with a small, practiced smile on her face, she goes back inside.

The Hound goes the opposite way.

  
  
  



End file.
